Death By A HoneyBee Page 4

  My problem was that I agreed with the police. I didn’t think Richard’s death was just an accident. Why was Richard on my property? What was his mode of transportation? Someone had to have been with him to remove the vehicle. Why did the bees sting a bee-charmer? I had seen Richard work with bees. They loved him. He was never stung, even when covered with the critters. Something or someone made those bees sting him. Still – it could have been a case of Richard wanting to vandalize my hives and having a heart attack, then falling into the hive. His accomplice ran off, not wanting to be implicated. If Richard had had a heart attack, wouldn’t the accomplice have helped him to the ground and tried CPR while calling 911? Or did the accomplice leave before Richard had his attack? It was the vandalism with which I had the most trouble. It just didn’t seem like Richard’s style. He loved direct confrontation. Sneakiness was not his MO.

  I jotted down my thoughts. I had three different theories: sex, money, and revenge. They were the cause of most murders. I needed to find out which one had led to his death.

  Matt called after each workday. I think he needed to be reassured himself. Matt seemed perturbed especially after the Herald-Leader published the story. Luckily, it just mentioned my name in connection with the location, and said that determination of death was still to be determined. No mention of foul play.

  I received several calls from my fellow beekeepers trying to worm out details, but I played dumb. I did welcome one interesting call from Irene Meckler, who sold sunflowers at the Farmers’ Market. She had been a member for twenty-five years and knew where all the bodies were buried, so to speak.

  “Josiah, honey, I’m sorry to bother you but I didn’t know if I would be seeing you soon at the Market.”

  “What can I do you for?” I asked, a little guardedly.

  “I don’t need to know what happened at your place . . .”

  “Nothing that I had a hand in, Irene, I assure you.”

  “Well, this has been preying on my mind. Thought you should know. About twelve years back, I found Tellie in a tearful tizzy sitting in her car at the Market. Richard had gone to wet his whistle with several other farmers and left Tellie alone to tear down the booth. Isn’t that just like Richard to let Tellie, all by herself, tear down that stuff . . .”

  “Why was she crying?” I interrupted.

  “That’s what I am trying to get at. How do I say this nicely? You know Taffy, their daughter, is not the sharpest knife in the drawer, God bless her heart.”

  “Yeah.” I wished Irene would get to the point.

  “Taffy was only seven then and was not doing well in school. Tellie had her . . . what you call it . . . evaluated that

  week. Honey, the test results were not good. Oh, I don’t mean she has the IQ of an idiot but Tellie is so smart, she thought Taffy would be too.”

  I wondered where this was going.

  “Tellie blamed Richard. Said he hit her when she was pregnant and she believed that incident caused some problem with Taffy.”

  “Goodness! So, is Taffy . . . slow? I though she just had learning disabilities.”

  “Naw, she gets letters backwards when she reads and has very little common sense just like most of humanity, but that’s all. I think mostly Taffy just would not apply herself. I always thought Tellie expected too much of her. Not everyone can exceed like Tellie did at schoolwork. But Richard hitting a pregnant woman – that’s just lowdown dirty. Yes, indeedy, I told Tellie that she should have tried to kill the old coot like his first wife did.”

  “Richard had a first wife?”

  “Agnes Bledsoe from Pike County. Her people are hill folk and have a fierce reputation, even up in the hollers. They’re known to carry pistols, even the women.”

  “Still?”

  “You betcha.”

  “Tell me all the details. I am riveted.”

  “Agnes is a dark-headed woman with Cherokee blood. They met at Morehead College and came back to Lexington after they were hitched. He was crazy in love with Agnes. Things seemed good for them. They went to the same church as I did, which is how I first knew them. Richard had a job with IBM making good money, plus his bees, while Agnes stayed home waiting to get pregnant. The only hitch was that Agnes loved to dance. Every Saturday, she and Richard would go out. That is where the trouble started, I reckon. Agnes’ good looks invited comments from other men, making Richard crazy. He would get in a fight, spoiling Agnes’ fun - then they’d fight. It really put a strain on their marriage.”

  “Did she egg Richard’s fighting on?”

  “Perhaps. She was young, pretty and full of spit and vinegar. She certainly was testing the waters to see how far she could push him. Maybe by this time, she tired of him and wanted to spread her wings a little bit, started lookin’ ’round. The one thing I do know for sure is that one day while reading the paper, I came across an article stating that Agnes had been arrested for the attempted murder of Richard. Said she tried to stab him.”

  “What happened?” I was writing furiously on my legal pad.

  “Apparently charges were dropped. Richard never spoke of it. Agnes stopped coming around the Market. Never heard another thing about it except to read about the final divorce decree in the paper. Richard was always very secretive about his life. Several years later, Tellie was introduced as the new wife.”

  “And lots younger than Richard. Fits the male mid-life crises pattern.”

  “Sure do. Thought you might want to know.”

  “Thanks, Irene. It fills in some holes. Do you know what happened to Agnes?”

  “You betcha. She owns her own company that does PR work for the horse industry and has a house in the gated area of Heartland subdivision.”

  “You know, I might want to talk with her. Does she go by Pidgeon?”

  “Thought you might want to chew the fat with her. She took back her maiden name.”

  “Do you know the name of her company?”

  “I think it is just listed under her name. Very dignified. Very discreet. I don’t think she even hangs out a sign. Just word of mouth.”

  “Wow. Thanks, Irene. I’ll see what I can find out.” I hung up and formulated a plan. I would have a better chance of speaking with Agnes Bledsoe at work, so I called my buddies who worked in the Thoroughbred industry and asked around. It seemed that Agnes had become a high muckety-muck in the marketing world of horses. I learned that she was very good and even respected overseas. She was also very expensive and so exclusive that her phone number was not even listed. I was impressed. How many businesses go out of their way to hide themselves? Agnes had bought a historical building downtown, refurnished it and located her office there many years ago. I had always thought the building was a private residence but it was really the busy factory of Agnes Bledsoe, making her filthy rich.

  I called but was told that I could not have an appointment with her. I don’t know upon what basis the snotty jerk of a receptionist made that decision. Maybe she had a phone ID that gave people’s bank account amount when calling. Seeing Miss Agnes was going to call for some ingenuity, so I decided to become creative. Getting transferred to Agnes’s secretary, I made an appointment for the next day by telling the young woman that I was working on a story for Southern Living. I was surprised she believed me. I’m usually a terrible liar, but since my fanny was put in a iron skillet with the fire turned on high, I guess my skill had improved.

  7

  Arriving early at the immaculate grounds of Agnes Bledsoe’s business address, I was made to wait just a few minutes before being shown into a dark, paneled office with a splendid view of the old Grecian-styled Carnegie library. The office reeked of cigar smoke, bourbon whiskey, and Lemon Pledge – my favorite smells – so go figure. Silver trophies and plaques graced polished shelves as oil paintings of famous horse champions hung on the walnut paneled walls.

  Agnes Bledsoe was everything I expected. Even in her mid-sixties, Agnes was quite a looker with her Native American heritage much in evidenc
e – high cheekbones, ruddy skin tones, and beautiful dark hair that I was sure had never seen a dye bottle. As she rose from her desk, she buttoned her Ann Taylor navy jacket that had a tease of a peach silk camisole peeking out. Her gold jewelry was modest but expensive. I noticed she still wore a wristwatch. Most people don’t now because of cell phones.

  I glanced haplessly at my out-of-date wool skirt sporting a healthy crop of lint balls. Mud was caked on the heels of my ankle boots. Fearing that I was going to leave dirt on her Persian carpet, I inwardly groaned.

  Agnes shook my hand with a crisp grip while telling her secretary to bring us tea.

  As soon the door closed, I blurted out my confession. “Ms. Bledsoe, I am so sorry, but I am here under a pretext,” I babbled. “I didn’t know if you would see me knowing the real reason for my visit.”

  “You’re not one of those PETA people are you?” asked Agnes, alarmed.

  “No. I’m here about Richard Pidgeon.”

  Agnes took in a sharp breath. “You look familiar. I know who you are. You’re Josiah Reynolds, the UK art professor. I heard one of your lectures at the Newman Center on traditional symbolism in religious paintings during the Dark Ages.”

  “I no longer work for UK, but thank you for remembering me.”

  “Nothing to thank me about. I thought you were perfectly dreadful. Didn’t understand a damn thing you said.”

  Okay – if this is the way she wants to play. A soft knock on the door kept me from responding. Her secretary brought in an ancient tea service and set it down on the coffee table. Agnes gestured to the surrounding chairs. I plopped down immediately.

  Agnes settled in a moss green camelback settee and began serving tea with perfect aplomb. I nervously rested the nineteenth century china cup on an end table, fearful that I might splatter tea on her antique furniture. As I had already lied to the woman, I certainly didn’t want to leave a water spot on her Duncan Phyfe. Agnes watched me the way a cat watches a fluttering bird. “I must say you have my curiosity. Why here about Richard? I divorced him years ago.”

  “If you know who I am, then you must know that Richard died on my property . . .”

  Agnes gaped at me with genuine shock and her hand faltered. I quickly grabbed her tilting teacup. She sputtered something unintelligible. Seeing a bottle of water on her desk, I fetched it for her. I was about to call her secretary when she regained her composure. Mopping her forehead with a tea towel, she said, “My, my! Aren’t you the jack-in-the-box of bad news. First you lie to get into my office and now you bring death to my door. How else may I be of help to you, Mrs. Reynolds?”

  “Are you telling me that you didn’t know that Richard had died?”

  “Richard and I don’t have mutual friends. I don’t read the paper unless it is the racing news. No, I didn’t know. How did he . . . pass away?”

  I briefly told her the circumstances of his death.

  “I still don’t see why you are here.”

  “There are some questions about his death. Since he died on my property, I am seeking information that might answer them.”

  Agnes Bledsoe was a sharp woman. “So there are some questions about his death and now you are here trying to find something that could pin Richard’s death on me. Aren’t you a plum!”

  My face blushed. With my flyaway red hair and freckles, I knew I must have looked most unattractive and guilty.

  “I haven’t been married to Richard for over two decades but I keep …” She stopped talking to wipe her running nose “I kept tabs on him from time to time through a private detective. I couldn’t risk personal contact with him, but I

  wanted to know how he was doing. You see, I loved Richard Pidgeon and never stopped.”

  Talk about being hit over the head. I was stunned. How could this beautiful, accomplished woman love a piece of manure like Richard Pidgeon?

  “I can see by your face that you didn’t expect this. When I met Richard in college, he was handsome, witty and lots of fun. We fell in love, got married and moved to Lexington. Everything was fine. I even overlooked his little obsessions about routine and cleanliness.”

  “What do you mean by ‘his little obsessions’?”

  “At first, I thought it was just his prissy nature. It wasn’t terribly noticeable, just odd things here and there. The yard had to be just right. He wouldn’t wear shirts that weren’t starched . . . things like that. We had a good first five years together. Then the car accident happened. It was on a Saturday night, and we were going to the Holiday Inn to hear

  JD Crowe. A drunk hit us, pretty badly. Totaled the car. Richard was in severe pain for a long time.”

  Agnes glanced down at her perfect manicure. “It was then that his compulsiveness began to surface. He was restless, impatient with any imperfection whether it be at work or just having his handkerchiefs not being ironed to his specifications. People began to annoy him more and more.

  “We both thought it was his pain medication, so we had the doctor fiddle with the dosage. That didn’t work. Richard was becoming as concerned as I was, but couldn’t seem to control his moods. He became more and more explosive. Finally, we resorted to seeing a therapist. Richard was diagnosed with OCD.”

  “Obsessive compulsive disorder,” I stated.

  “Yes.” Agnes nodded. “At that time, there were few medications for his problem and what was available made him sick. We tried talk therapy but it did little good. The therapist felt that Richard had a genetic predisposition to OCD, and the car accident had made it worse. It could have been from either a chemical change in his brain or chronic fear the accident had instilled in him. It didn’t matter. For three years we went from one treatment to the next. Nothing worked, and we were running out of options as Richard became more controlling and abusive.”

  “By abusive, do you mean violent?”

  “He slapped me twice. On the third slap, I took a fire poker to his head.”

  I handed Agnes the newspaper article about her arrest from what was then the Lexington Herald, which I had copied at the library. She read the copy with detachment.

  Agnes cleared her throat. “This is wrong. I didn’t try to stab him. I hit him with a poker. The charges were dropped. Richard came to jail to collect me, but I wouldn’t go with him. My mind was already made up. I told Richard I was going to divorce him. As much as I loved him, I loved myself more. I told him that we would eventually ruin each other. He would hit me again one day and, on that day, I would kill him. It was best that we part.”

  “How did he take it?”

  “Hard, very hard.” She glared at me with barely concealed contempt. “I know what Richard had become, but deep down he was a decent man, a good man. He didn’t ask for what happened to him. It was something out of his control. At one time Richard was a young man full of promise. If that drunk hadn’t hit us, maybe Richard would never have become an irritable, selfish man. Who are you to judge him?”

  I didn’t want to cause Agnes Bledsoe any more pain, so I mumbled a thank you and left with my hat in my hand, so to speak. I sat in my van near Gratz Park scribbling notes about our conversation on my legal pad. I tried to mentally justify the fact that I had lied and caused pain to another person. It was obvious to me that Agnes Bledsoe had once deeply loved Richard and still did. Still, whether from my stubbornness or anger at her thinly veiled insults, I wrote her name down as a possible suspect. Someone drove Richard to my house. Could it have been Agnes?

  Arriving home before dusk, I checked on my various grazing pets such as rescued racehorses that freely wandered my 139 acres. I tossed apples along the winding gravel road for the goats. Coming to my beeyard, I parked the van.

  Honeybees flitted through the open windows of the van, some of them lighting on my arms so they could groom or collect pollen from their bodies. It was a shame that the furry insects would not allow themselves to be petted. People would like them better if they could stroke the bees’ downy little heads. Sitting in my rusty van, I
watched the bees until twilight passed - thinking, thinking, thinking.

  8

  The following Saturday, I went to work at the Farmers’ Market, putting on a brave front. The morning went by quickly. Before I knew it, I had sold out all of my award-winning Locust Honey. It seemed that people had read the article about the incident and were interested in checking me out. That was fine with me as long as they purchased something. I was handing a customer her order of Wildflower Honey when Detective Goetz materialized at my booth. His sudden appearance startled me. He was decked out in a blue T-shirt that sported “WILDCAT COUNTRY” and a pair of out-of-season, black plaid Bermuda shorts. A small patch of a pale, hairy paunch peeped from beneath his shirt. Thank goodness he knew enough not to wear socks with his sandals.